


Wish That I'd Taken More Photographs

by Serenitala



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is somewhat voyeuristic, M/M, Phil is confused, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenitala/pseuds/Serenitala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Avengers have been living in Stark Tower for six months before Phil sees the inside of Barton's room."</p>
<p>In which Phil discovers that Clint likes to take photos of his teammates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish That I'd Taken More Photographs

**Author's Note:**

> There's a small reference to some genetically engineered dogs being attacked by Thor during a battle. It's made clear that they are incredibly dangerous but I wanted to warn you first, just in case.

The Avengers have been living in Stark Tower for six months before Phil sees the inside of Barton's room. It's accidental really, he'd had dinner with Pepper and afterwards had headed to Barton's quarters to discuss an upcoming mission. After receiving no reply to his knock he'd turned to head back down the corridor when a voice spoke.

  _“Agent Barton is in the shower, but he informs me that he is happy for you to wait for him in his quarters.”_

 “Thank you, JARVIS.”

 Phil has never given any thought to what Barton's bedroom would be like but if somebody had asked him, he would never have said that it would be... like this. He would have imagined some place bare, sparse, impersonal.

 Phil's eyes linger on the large bed with its overstuffed pillows and quite frankly  _enormous_  deep blue quilt. There are bookshelves with a few battered paperbacks and some odd looking knick-knacks and from what Phil can see through the slightly ajar wardrobe door there are plenty of clothes hung up in a multitude of colours.

 That's not the most remarkable thing though.

 One of the walls is almost covered in photographs. They're pushed up against each other, no glimpse of the wall behind them. Photo after photo after photo. Natasha standing on her head, calm and serene; a shot of Thor flexing his muscles, with Jane sat on one bicep and Darcy on the other; Tony and Pepper lying on the couch together, his fingers running through her hair; Natasha teaching Steve to dance; Bruce asleep on the sofa, newspaper on his lap and glasses slipping from his fingers. There was one that Phil remembers being taken during a post-debrief pizza night in the tower a few weeks earlier, Tony had taken it upon himself to fill Steve in on random cultural moments and had swept up Pepper and recreated the VJ day kiss right there in front of everybody. The most surprising part though were the pictures of Phil himself, more of him than of anybody else. Phil at his desk, reading glasses on nose; Phil at the range testing a new gun; Phil at a bar, a smile ghosting his face as Barton whispers something in his ear; Phil smiling as Steve signs his cards; Phil during a take-out evening at the tower, a forkful of noodles halfway to his mouth.

 Now that he thinks about it he remembers seeing Barton take photos now and then but he had no idea he'd taken so many. He studies them, looking at them all individually, staring at his own face.  _This is important_  he realises, something to be considered carefully and possibly at great length.

 “Hey, bossman, what's up?”

 Phil turns to see Barton come out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist and moisture clinging to his skin as he scrubs at his hair with another towel. Phil suddenly finds it hard to swallow as his eyes follow the way the muscles in Barton's chest flex and shift with the movement.

 “Your room's nice,” he says, hoping his voice doesn't give away how off-kilter he suddenly feels, “I expected it to be more... spartan.”

 Barton grins, teeth shining, as he shrugs, Phil tries not to track the movement. “These are the nicest digs I've ever had, might as well settle in. Did you think I'd hide up in the rafters?” He huffs a brief laugh, “It's just a codename you know, I don't actually nest.”

 Phil gives a self-deprecating chuckle, Barton is a remarkably well-adjusted man for all of his turbulent life events, there is no reason why he wouldn't settle down and make a nice home here when it was offered. And there is no reason why this discovery should cause Phil such confusion.

 “Of course,” he replies, before getting down to the business in hand and trying desperately to stop watching the way a few stray droplets run down Barton's abdomen.

 

* * *

 

It's months before Phil is in Barton's room again. Not that he hadn't thought about it; thought about the photographs, the prominence of his own face, the way Barton had looked in nothing but a towel, water slowly sliding down his chest. Oh he'd thought about it alright.

 It had been a long, hard day. Too long and too hard, running around cleaning up other people's messes and then, just when it was almost over, there had been an impromptu Avengers battle with a horde of genetically engineered dogs. They may have been over 6 foot tall, vicious and drooling blood but some of them had been puppies and there was just something wrong with that.

 The team had dragged him and Hill to a bar to try and unwind, one that was generally only frequented by Shield agents who needed to drink away their day. By the time he'd arrived, the booze was already flowing pretty strongly and the team were all arguing over who had scored the most hits that day.

 As the night grew later, he noticed that although Barton was knocking back drink after drink he wasn't really amongst the throng, chatting and laughing and dancing. He stayed back, watching and, occasionally, at some moment he deemed right, snapping a picture. He caught Phil looking and, after raising his beer in salute, came and sat down next to him.

 “So, puppies...”

 “I know,” Phil replied, “There are some things you just don't want to see being hit by Mjolnir.”

 “At least they were evil puppies.” Barton countered. “It was them or New York, after all.”

 Phil nodded and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Yes, well, I'm definitely a cat person now.”

 Barton laughed, a warm, familiar sound and Phil found himself laughing with him. Barton tossed his camera to Natasha, “Hey, Nat, clicky click,” he called. She rolled her eyes but pointed the camera at the pair of them. As she did, Barton's arm fell on Phil's shoulders and he missed a breath remembering to smile.

 Later, Phil accompanied them back to the tower. It wasn't that he didn't trust them to find their own way home without getting into more trouble, it was just that... ok, he didn't trust them. They could cause mayhem when sober, he wasn't letting them out of his sight when drunk.

 He isn't sure how it fell to him to get Barton back to his room, but somehow he ends up half carrying, half dragging him to his doorway.

 “Jarvis, open up, Barton's in no fit state to get in himself.”

 “Certainly, sir.”

 Phil manages to deposit Barton on the bed, briefly considering removing his shoes but after eyeing the complicated looking boots that Barton is wearing he thinks 'fuck it,' and turns to head out when he remembers the photos and turns to look. The original wall is completely covered and the pictures have started covering the adjoining ones. Curious, he moves closer. So many shots. Tony, tongue poking out of his mouth as he works on an engine; Steve and Thor laughing whilst sparring; Natasha smiling at something Bruce is saying, his hands blurred as he illustrates his story. There are a few of different people attempting to lift Miolnir whilst Thor looks on fondly in the background. There are some of Hill, hair loose and allowing Sitwell to lead her around a dancefloor and even one of Fury holding up bunny ears behind Tony in his iron man suit. There are some of the nurses in medical, blushing and smiling at the camera and a few of Darcy dancing, her hair flying around her like a tornado. But again Phil finds his eyes drawn to the pictures that he himself features in, which again outnumber any of the others; Phil laughing till tears drip from his eyes while Stark stands covered head to toe in mud; Phil in workout gear demonstrating different hand to hand techniques to new recruits; Phil juggling files and a cup of coffee as he walks into the tower; Phil petting a cat that crossed their path during mission clean-up. Phil's face is everywhere, scattered across the room and he can't look away.

 

* * *

 

Natasha is not the black widow. Natasha is funny and graceful, surprisingly even-tempered and unwaveringly devoted to Barton. It's not romantic, it's most likely not even sexual, but it's intimate and true in a way that Phil can't help but be awed by. It's two people that have faith in nothing but each other. Two people who have been betrayed by everyone but can stand back to back in a circle of enemies and know without a shadow of a doubt that they have each other.

 It's Natasha that Phil speaks to about Barton.

 “How is he, really?”

 “He's fine, he's coping admirably.”

 “I know that he can compartmentalize with the best of them. I just don't want him to be bottling his experience with Loki up and have it explode in his face further down the line.”

 “It won't,” Natasha says with a firmness that surprises him, “we do what we do and it either defines us, or we define it. I have seen many people who have been through similar – not alien mind-control of course, but similar – and some deal better and some deal worse. Clint knows that it is not his fault. It helps of course,” she adds with a small smile, “that you did not turn out to be truly dead.”

 Phil trusts Natasha, trusts that she knows Barton enough to be certain of what she says.

 “Have you seen his room?”

 “Of course.”

 “The photographs?”

 Natasha smiles then, her head nodding slightly. “He has many bad memories, from his childhood,  from his life before SHIELD, from his work, from Loki. He is surrounding himself with good memories to try to obliterate the bad. I imagine that he thinks the smiles on faces of friends and family are the best medicine.”

 She stands and nods at him before leaving the room. Phil is left staring into the distance for quite some time.

 

* * *

 

The moment he walks through the door to his office Phil knows something is wrong. It doesn't take long for him to notice the slightly raised ceiling tile and before long he's climbing into the ceiling.

 For some reason that he doesn't particularly want to examine he isn't at all surprised to see the small pile of blankets, remembering Barton's ' _I don't actually nest_ ,' with a shake of his head. He tries not to linger on the question of why Barton chose here of all places to set up camp. As he moves to drop back down his eye is caught by a cardboard box half-buried in the blankets. He knows he shouldn't look but Phil's done a lot of things over the years that he shouldn't have done and he's not about to stop now.

 There's a few arrow heads at the top of the box, some fairly recent and stained, some that look a lot older. Underneath, Phil isn't shocked to see that there are more photographs. A few are folded and creased with age and thumbing. There's a man and woman and two young boys, smiling at the camera. The same two boys, a little older, arms around each other, grinning happily. A group shot in front of a big top. One of a youthful Barton, posing with a  bow and arrow, dressed in a ridiculous purple ensemble and a wide, goofy smile on his face. Phil smiles and picks up the next few pictures. They are distance shots of The Black Widow and Phil knows that these were the pictures that were given to Clint when he was sent on  _that_  mission, the one he came back from with a new playmate.

 There's some more shots of Natasha but these aren't like the ones of her in Barton's room, smiling and peaceful, these are rougher, there's an edge of something simmering under her surface. He must have taken them whilst stalking her on that fateful mission; there are photos taken later, Natasha in medical, unconscious and injured. The last one of her is different again, she's wearing jeans and a bra and she has her back to the camera but is looking back over her shoulder with a fond look of exasperation on her face, as though she's laughing and admonishing Barton at the same time.

 Phil suddenly feels like a trespasser, like he's disturbed something sacred. He moves to replace the photos but stops when he sees what's next in the box. A card covered in impossibly red blood. A limited edition Captain America trading card, number 17. It had been bought in a pawn shop in Maine, during a mission that Fury had sent him on with Barton four years earlier. It hadn't been returned with the rest of his damaged collection and Phil had assumed that it had been lost in the upheaval after the battle. Apparently it hadn't been.

 The last collection of pictures are all of Phil. Intimate in a way that the shots in Barton's bedroom hadn't been. Some of them are close ups; the curve of Phil's cheek as it gives way to an eye; his hand on his ear piece; his smile, or the hollow of his throat leading to a loosened tie. Phil realises he's breathing heavily as he stares at the pictures. There's more, him lying under stark white sheets, bandages swathing his torso and left arm, hooked up to machines; him asleep on the couch in his office, a blanket tucked around him; even one that looks like it was taken through the scope of Barton's rifle.

 As he replaces the box, trying his hardest to make sure nothing looks disturbed Phil knows he has to think about this, knows now that the things he has been wondering about are being confirmed.

 

* * *

 

It's three weeks later when Fury tells him that security will be conducting a full scale sweep of the building that day, vents and rafters and all. Phil races back to his office, removing Barton's belongings then summoning him to his office.

 Barton walks in twenty minutes later and stops suddenly when he sees the pile in front of Phil's desk. The blankets neatly folded under the pillow, the box perched on top.

 “Sir?” Barton asks, his voice confused.

 “Security are currently poking around every nook and cranny, I thought it best to move your...nest... for the time being. You may replace it when they are done.”

 Barton is watching him, his wary eyes flicking between Phil and his possessions. Phil looks at his computer and starts typing, he doesn't want to worry Barton too much or make him nervous.

 “Do you want the card back?”

 Phil could play it safe here, say “what card?” and pretend that he'd not looked in the box and maybe they could go back to normal but Phil has never lied to Barton and he isn't going to start doing so now.

 “Do you know the best thing about collecting something, Agent?”

 “Sir?”

 “It's not when you have a complete collection, the high of that only lasts so long. It's every time you're one step closer to that full set. That buzz you get when you find a missing piece of the jigsaw. Once the set is complete those wonderful buzzes are gone forever and you have to find something new to collect. Eventually you'll probably end up at stamps.” Phil waits a moment then shrugs, “I don't like stamps.”

 Barton's forehead is furrowed, confused, “I don't...”

 “Of course, if some asshole decides to ruin your near-mint collection with blood, not even your own blood may I add, then you need to start collecting again. So if one or two go missing along the way it doesn't really matter if you're already starting from the ground up.”

 Barton nods his head, his face impressively blank. “I see.”

 

* * *

 

Phil expects it to be awkward for a while, the elephant in the room. He's seen in the box, and now Barton knows that he expects things to change.

 “Where is Agent Barton?” Phil asks, striding into the briefing room two days later.

 Natasha shrugs but Stark pipes up, glee in his voice.

 “I think he had a late night, last seen exiting the bar with a ridiculously hot blonde. Seriously, legs like I have never seen, and I've seen Pepper's legs.”

 Phil feels himself go cold then hot all of a sudden, anger and hurt and all number of feelings that he doesn't want to think about warring for supremacy as Steve hisses “Tony!” and Stark finally, finally shuts up. Phil thinks he can feel Natasha's eyes on him but doesn't look at her as he carries on with the meeting, trying his best to keep some semblance of calm.

 Twenty minutes later Barton strolls through the door wearing sunglasses and a rumpled shirt. He slouches into a seat and smirks at Tony.

 “I'm glad you could finally join us, Agent Barton. I hope your late night didn't take too much out of you.” Phil manages to bite out. He doesn't look at Barton for the rest of the briefing and he's out of the door before anybody else.

 It doesn't take long for Phil to reach a decision as he sits in his office staring at the small bundle of blankets and that damn box. The doctors have been telling him to take it easy since his injury and he has more than enough time off saved up. A holiday would be good for his health and would have the much added bonus of putting a little distance between him and Barton. He needs some time away from seeing him every day.

 After two miserable weeks pottering around the markets of southern France, Phil is back in New York for seven hours before volunteering for the mind-numbing job of supervising a team of scientists tracing unusual readings in Idaho. The assignment lasts for three weeks and then there is no choice but to head back to HQ.

 When he enters his office, he immediately notices that Barton's stash has gone but doesn't allow himself to check the ceiling to see if that's where it has moved to.

 

* * *

 

Life continues for a while. There are no major disasters, just the day to day running of a top-secret organisation. When Phil runs into Barton in the corridors he nods but doesn't stop to talk, doesn't take Barton up on his offers of lunch and coffee, he doesn't even stop in at the tower to check on things. He knows that he's probably being stupid but he can't forget the tight, sickening feeling he'd felt at the briefing, that overwhelming sense of jealousy and betrayal that he knew he'd had no right to feel.

 Phil throws himself into his work, catching up on the things he'd missed during his vacation and babysitting duties. He stays too late and works too hard, until one evening Fury pokes his head around the door and orders him to “go home and get some goddamn sleep before I throw you out.”

 He's been in the house for five minutes when there's a knock on the door, and he's surprised to find Barton on his doorstep, shifting from foot to foot.

 “I think we need to talk about this,” Barton says after he's followed Phil inside, his eyes focused somewhere near Phil's left ear.

 “Talk about what?” Phil asks, because he doesn't want to have this conversation, not now, not ever.

 “About the fact that you're avoiding me, the fact that you took the worst fucking detail at SHIELD to get away from me.” He hesitates for a moment, and his voice seems to go small “I know what you saw, in the box, I get that. I know it freaked you out, but I'm not going to make it difficult for you, you don't need to worry about that.”

 “What?” Phil manages to get out, perplexed, “What are you- I found the box weeks before that day, it wasn't because of what was in the box.” And Phil wants to kick himself, for admitting that he has been behaving strangely, for admitting that there is something wrong.

 “Then what the hell is the problem?” Barton snarls, he seems angry and frustrated and Phil supposes that he can't blame him. He takes a deep breath.

 “It was about the briefing, about you being late.”

 Barton raises his eyebrows in disbelief, “You're acting like a dick because I was late for a briefing?”

 “No,” Phil bites out, feeling a blush, but he's come too far to back out now, “because of the reason you were late for the briefing.”

 Barton looks at him in confusion for a moment, before comprehension passes across his face, “because I picked up some girl at a bar? You- you were jealous? Fuck.” He rubs his hand over his face then looks up at Phil.

 “I'm not gay.”

 Phil didn't think it was possible for him to feel worse than he already did, didn't think the twisted, squirming feeling in his gut could get tighter and hotter but he'd been wrong. He feels embarrassed and humiliated and so fucking stupid.

 “Right... well, OK then,” he finds himself saying, before moving towards the door, wanting to get Barton out of his house, out of his  _life_.

 Barton holds his hand up, he starts to reach towards Phil before running a hand through his hair.

 “No, wait, listen, I mean I've never been gay  _before_. I've never been with a dude, I mean I've thought about it, once or twice but I've never... but I want... I _have wanted_ for so long, and then you found the box and I freaked out, OK? I just freaked the fuck out and went to some bar and picked up some woman who could have been anyone and I know I fucked up,” He takes a deep breath and meets Phil's eyes, “but maybe we could go out for coffee, or dinner?”

 Phil has no idea how he is meant to respond to that, no idea what to say or do. He's never had his mood and feelings bounced about so completely in such a short space of time, never felt so completely thrown.

 “So what you're saying is that you are having a sexual epiphany and want to take me to dinner?”

 The corner of Barton's mouth twitches and he shrugs, “It's what people do when they like each other isn't it? They go on dates? I mean I know I'm no relationship expert, but I think that's what people do.”

 Phil feels giddy, confused and pleased and surprised and happy, he fights to keep the smile of his face, “I don't know about that,” he replies but when Clint's face falls, he steps quickly towards him, “I mean, you're not even sure if you're gay, what happens if we go out, get dinner and then come back here and when it gets to the goodnight kiss you realise that you're straight after all?” Phil shrugs, “That would be embarrassing for all concerned, and, quite frankly, a waste of time.”

 He takes another step towards Clint, looking straight at him. He sees the moment when Clint gets it, when Clint understands. He gets this small, devastating smile on his face that Phil doesn't think he's ever seen before, soft and vulnerable and utterly beautiful. Phil keeps his movements slow as he enters his personal space and leans in slowly, so slowly.

 Clint's lips are surprisingly gentle and they move against his like a slow dance to a favourite song. When those wonderful lips part Phil can feel tongue and warmth and  _Clint_  and it's perfect in a way that things in his life never are. There's a gentle hand on the back of his head and another is on his hip and their bodies are pressed against one another. In a moment of romanticism, Phil thinks that he could live in this moment forever, this gentle, unexpected moment of happiness and certainty. Eventually they have to break apart to breathe and Clint is laughing softly, his breath caressing Phil's face.

 Phil pulls back, “So, dinner's a go then?” he asks, and Clint looks at him, with the kind of grin that he thinks might blind him.

 “Actually, I'm over the dinner thing, I thought maybe we could continue my sexual epiphany.”

 Phil groans because that may well be the worst come-on line that he has ever heard but Clint just keeps grinning, unrepentant and happy and so goddamn beautiful that Phil thinks maybe he can live with the terrible lines if he can keep seeing that smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a song by Hilary and the Democrats.
> 
> I'm looking for a beta for a C/C AU I've written that is refusing to play ball with me, if anyone is interested in helping out I would be incredibly grateful!


End file.
